


One Bed

by EmmaFoxglove



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Awkwardness, F/M, Fantasizing, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Longing, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Post - A Feast for Crows, Post-Canon, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, nightmare trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:17:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23579461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaFoxglove/pseuds/EmmaFoxglove
Summary: Our heroes have been roughing it for days when they come to an inn with only one bed available. Suddenly Sansa and Sandor are each forced to admit (if only to themselves) that they are very attracted to one another.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 167





	One Bed

There was only one bed. 

It loomed there in the corner of the tiny room, the last room the inn had to offer. It wasn’t even a real bed chamber, just some spare bit of space off the scullery, probably a disused store room that the landlord had shifted to make a couple extra coppers a week. The place smelled vaguely of mildew and there were suspicious dark patches on the low-pitched ceiling. Sandor frowned at them. If he woke in the middle of the night to a leaking roof he was going to demand their money back. 

Sansa moved past him and dropped her saddlebag onto the floor. “Well, it’s better than sleeping out in the open again,” she said, looking up at him as if she wasn’t entirely convinced. 

Sandor  _ wasn’t _ convinced. The bed was barely large enough for two people and the rest of the room was barely large enough for their supplies. No space for even a bedroll on the floor. 

Sandor dropped his own bundle, watching it land in a heap. It shouldn’t bother him as much as it did, being close to her. It was hardly the first time they’d slept side by side since they’d started north. But sleeping on the frozen ground curled together for warmth was hardly the same as sharing a warm bed at an inn. “It’ll do,” he said. It would have to. 

They wandered out into the inn’s main room. It was crowded. There was some gathering happening in Gull Town and all the inns were packed to the rafters. Sansa searched for a place for them to sit, but everywhere she looked she saw only people. Sandor pointed to the far corner of the room where there were a couple of open spaces at the end of a table. 

“Head over there,” he told her. “I’ll talk to the landlord about supper.” 

Sansa felt a spike of fear at the thought of walking through the noisy crowd. Most of them were men, farmers and tradesmen by the look of them. The few women amongst them were serving wenches and barmaids.  _ But I’m not a woman any more,”  _ she reminded herself, looking down at her dun robe.  _ There’s no reason for Brother Halbert to be afraid of some farmers.  _ She began walking around the side of the room, headed for the two empty seats. Some people gave her curious looks. Sansa tried to quell her fear. It was because she was a brother that people looked, she reminded herself. Not because they suspected her. Still, she had to force herself to keep at a normal pace as she crossed the room. 

Once she sat down she felt a little better. The heads that had turned in her direction went back to their own concerns, and though a few of the men seated to her left gave her curious looks, they didn’t seem interested enough to speak to her. Even if they had, Sandor had shown her the sign she was to use when people asked her questions. She would point to the seven pointed star she wore around her neck and then put her finger over her lips and then point to the star again. That meant she’d taken a vow of silence. 

“Can’t have people hearing your voice,” he’d told her. “It’s hard enough trying to make you look like a man. One word out of your mouth and I’ll be swinging from a gibbet while you’re trussed up like a hog and taken to Cersei.”

“I could speak low,” she’d said. She’d pitched her voice as deep as she could “Like this.” 

He had been entirely unimpressed.

“Keep your head down, your face hidden, and your mouth shut. I’ll do the same and with any luck we’ll be in Winterfell before spring.” 

And that’s what they’d been doing, though there was little point in Sandor keeping his head down. Even in his dun robes with the cloth covering his scars, he was still noticeable in the crowd. Nothing could disguise his height or the breadth of his shoulders, held back in a warrior stance that clashed with his humble brother’s robes. 

Sansa anxiously watched him from across the room. Ever since that evening at the Gates of the Moon, Sansa had felt like the whole world was poised to pounce on her. The only thing that seemed to be keeping it at bay was the big, surly man walking toward her, his arms loaded with their dinner.

“Hope you like partridge,” he rasped, setting the birds down between them, along with a small loaf of bread and two cups of ale. He sat across from her and, propping his hands up onto the table, he interlaced his fingers and bowed his head over them, closing his eyes. Sansa hurried to do the same, but instead of praying, she raised her eyes to look at him. 

He was so different, and yet exactly the same. He was often gruff, unafraid to tell her when she was doing something wrong or being silly. But that terrible fury that she so distinctly remembered was gone. And he did things like  _ this _ . 

He lowered his hands and opened his eyes, immediately reaching for his bird. He grabbed it and tore a leg off, raising it to his face before he stopped, catching her staring at him. 

“What?” he growled. It unnerved him when she looked at him. It had always been something he’d thought he wanted, and he remembered drunkenly demanding it from her on several occasions. However, ever since he’d met her again he’d catch her looking him full in the face with a strange, earnest expression that made him squirm. 

“I’m still not used to you doing things like that,” she told him, pitching her voice so low that he could only hear her when he leaned in. The man sitting a little to her left wouldn’t have been able to hear even if he’d been paying attention. 

Sandor shrugged. “Lived in a septry for five years. You pick up habits. Plus we’d be giving bad examples to the laity if we didn’t,” he nodded his head toward the crowd who were all completely ignoring the two brothers of the faith. 

Sansa just smiled and picked up her own partridge. 

They didn’t stay in the common room long after they’d eaten. They’d been on the road for days and the thought of a bed—even a poor, smelly thing like their’s—was a comfort to Sansa. 

It wasn’t until they were back in the damp little store room that she really considered their situation. 

_ It’s so small _ she thought, looking at it. The bed was pushed into the back corner, with a straw mattress covered by a thin blanket. Two average-sized people might be able to sleep in reasonable comfort. As it was, Sandor would be taking up most of the bed all by himself. The only way Sansa was going to fit was if she pressed right up against him. 

Sansa went very still. She’d lain beside him before, many times, but always in the bitter cold, each of them shivering and pressed against each other for the tiniest bit of warmth. And never in a  _ bed.  _

Sansa was aware of him standing behind her. She took the two steps toward the corner of the room before bending to unlace her boots, careful to keep her face turned away from him in case he could guess the peculiar nature of her thoughts. 

Sandor watched her go, his own thoughts tying themselves into knots. He couldn’t do this. There had to be another way. He’d sleep in the stables. But then who’d protect the little bird? They’d put a bedroll out. There wasn’t space on the floor, there was barely enough room for them both to stand in, much less lie down. Perhaps she’d be able to, she was smaller than he was, but he'd be damned before making Sansa Stark lie on a damp dirt floor while he slept in a bed. He ground his teeth together. 

Sansa pulled her boots off and absently reached up to scratch at her chest, the binding cloths itching her, as they had for days. Another thought occurred to her. She could take them off now that they were in private and weren’t freezing. But then she’d have to take off her robe to remove them . . . heat crept up her face, but the longing to be free from the tight, scratchy bandages was too tempting. She rose to her feet and looked over at Sandor. He was seated on the bed, bent over to remove his own boots. 

She raised her hands toward her face, fidgeting with the edge of her cowl. She cleared her throat. He glanced up at her. 

“Would you mind turning away?” she asked. “I’d . . . like to take off the . . . the cloths . . .” she made a small gesture toward her chest, hoping he’d understand. She regretted it when she saw his eyes flick down to where she was pointing. 

“You want me to leave?” he asked. His voice was even rougher than usual, with annoyance, she assumed.

“No,” she told him, embarrassed. It would have been nice if he left, but they were both exhausted and she didn’t want to make him do anything more than necessary.“It’ll only take a moment. You can just turn away, if you would.” 

He eyed her for a moment, then snorted and rose to his feet. She watched him turn toward the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. She turned away as well and hurriedly drew her robe up over her head, overly aware that she was standing in nothing but her small clothes and the tight linen bandages that mashed down her breasts. She fumbled with the knot at the top of the bandages, her fingers slipping, her nails not long enough to get a hold on the tightly bunched fabric. She bit her lip as she struggled, her heart racing. She could feel him behind her, waiting impatiently for her to hurry up so he could sleep. But the knot wouldn’t come undone. 

Sandor glared at the wall, focusing on the bare wooden planks with such intensity that he imagined they’d burst into flames. He forced himself to think about grave digging. Latrine duty. Fat brother Grippton’s ulcers. The Imp. Gregor. Anything that would keep his cock down while behind him the little bird was taking off her clothes. He could hear fabric rustling. **Her robe** **coming off.** Then other, smaller sounds as her fingers unfastened the binding clothes. Against his will he imagined her breasts swinging free of their restraints, all creamy white and rosy pink . . . or maybe brown? **Stop it,** he warned himself, **Do not** ** _fucking_** **think about what color her nipples are. Do** ** _not._** What was taking her so long? He’d been staring at this bloody wall for ages. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, sounding flustered. He almost turned around to see what the issue was but stopped himself just in time. “It’s just that this knot is giving me trouble.” 

Was she asking for help? Is that what was happening? She wanted him to help her? No, definitely not, She was just explaining the problem.  **I could offer to help, though.**

**No, you couldn’t.** The sane part of his brain argued. The weaker part of him was writhing in agony, begging him to  _ please _ for the love of all that was good, assist Sansa Stark in freeing her teats. 

Sansa frantically fought to loosen the knot, her fingers trembling.  _ He thinks I’m an idiot _ . she thought.  _ Why did I even bother to do this? I should have just gone to bed with it on like I have been. It wasn’t bothering me that much.  _ Just then her fumbling fingers managed to pull the right bit of fabric and the knot relaxed, the linen loosening around her chest, letting her take true, deep breaths for the first time in days. She sighed in relief, luxuriating in the freedom as she pulled off the linen bandages. 

Listening to her, Sandor felt his knees go weak. 

Sansa hurriedly pulled her robe back on and turned around. He was still staring at the wall. “You can turn around now. Thank you.” 

He just grunted and did as he was told. 

They stood there for a moment, looking at each other. Sansa bit her lip and glanced over at the bed, wondering if she should lie down. 

“We’d better get some rest,” Sandor grumbled. He gestured toward the bed, hinting that she should lie against the wall. She quickly complied, feeling embarrassed for balking. She didn’t want him to think that she had reservations about being close to him. He’d chalk it up to her useless courtesy, she knew, and would remind her that they were criminals in hiding, not courtiers in the Red Keep. Or worse, he’d see it as repulsion from his scars rather than the truth, that she was intimidated by the idea of lying next to him.  _ He could kiss me again.  _

Sandor watched her climb into bed and pull the blanket up over herself. He blew out the candle and climbed in after her, casually, as if he barely even noticed the change from their combined bedrolls. That would be best, he thought, just letting things remain as they had been. Two people on the run. A young woman and her bodyguard. 

They lay back to back, Sandor trying not to take up the entire bed and knowing that he failed. The little bird didn’t complain. He could feel her warmth, the soft, solid line of her back curving against his. He could feel her breathing and imagined that he could feel her heart beating. The room was unbearably quiet, the inn dying down for the night, travelers finding their own beds. 

Sandor closed his eyes and begged for sleep, knowing full well that it wouldn’t be given to him. He had trouble sleeping at the best of times, and this, crammed into a smelly, uncomfortable bed with a beautiful girl was not one of them. All he could do was try to keep his mind from wandering. That seemed equally impossible.

**It’d be so easy. Just turn and wrap my arm around her, pull her back against me. Kiss the back of her neck, her hair, her shoulder. She’d be startled, maybe ask what I was doing. And I’d tell her. I’d tell her how beautiful she is, how I’ve wanted her ever since she showed up at the Quiet Isle. And I’d say how good I could make her feel if she’d only let me. It’s dark, she wouldn’t have to see my bloody face. I could turn her around and kiss her proper, like a knight in one of her stories.**

He smiled grimly into the dark, knowing that he’d never be able to pull that off. Even if he gathered the nerve, she’d push him away the second he touched her. She’d be afraid. Maybe she already was. Maybe she was lying there next to him, terrified, waiting for him to reach out and grab her. His blood cooled at the thought. 

_ It’d be so easy.  _ Sansa thought, lying next to him, feeling the warm press of his body against her own.  _ He could reach out and touch me, roll me over and kiss me hard. He’d pull my hair burying his fingers into it. He’s so big and heavy I’d never be able to push him off. So I’d kiss him instead. Maybe he’d be surprised by that. Maybe it’d encourage him to press further. He’d kiss me harder, biting my lip, growling my name as his hands pulled up the hem of this stupid robe.  _ Sansa was biting her own lip, her face horribly hot. She was becoming dreadfully uncomfortable, her thighs squeezing together to ease some of the ache building between them. 

The girl was restless. Sandor wondered if she was having trouble getting comfortable with him there, taking up all her space and no doubt filling the room with a veritable cloud of male lust. The thrice-damned bed creaked under her as she squirmed, making his imagination run wild. 

**What if she didn’t push me away? Small chance, surely, but what if she didn’t? She’s looked at me more since we’ve been together. Maybe she’d gotten used to my face enough that it doesn’t frighten her any more. Maybe she’d kiss me back, her arms curling around my neck, her sweet, soft body melting against mine. I’d get to feel those breasts against me. Her teats look just big enough to fill my hands. Maybe if I reached up and squeezed one she’d sigh like she did before.**

Sandor grunted and adjusted a little, pulling his pillow tighter against his face. His hand bunched up the underside of it, wanting something warmer and firmer than goose down. 

Sansa tried to keep still. Sandor was getting annoyed by all of her movement, she could tell, but she couldn’t get comfortable.  _ Gods, I wish he would touch me. I want him to pull my clothes off and run his hands over my body. I want him to kiss my neck and touch my breasts. And maybe I could please him in return, like how Myranda told me. I wonder what he would say if I reached out and touched his manhood? Would he like it? Or would he think I was silly, a stupid little bird pretending to be a woman grown? I’d probably do it wrong and he’d despise me and make fun of me like he used to do.  _ Sansa pressed her lips together and shifted once more, but this time it was out of shame.  _ Why am I thinking like this? What makes me think that Sandor Clegane wants anything to do with me? He’s changed now. A man of the cloth. If he ever wanted me—and I’m not sure that he ever did—I have no reason to think any of that desire still lingers.  _ Tears pricked the back of her eyelids and Sansa felt a sudden, stupid urge to get up and leave the room. 

Sandor was dying. His cock was stiff as a sword and he was the farthest he’d ever been from sleep.  **I could pull her tight against me, until she could feel me hard against her belly. Has she ever seen a man hard? Gods, I hope not. There was the bloody dwarf I know, but she said that they never consummated it. Gods, I hope she never saw his cock. I want mine to be the first she ever knows. I want to be her first in everything she does with a man in bed. I’d go easy on her, though. Gentle and slow. She deserves that, someone to kiss her and touch her and tell her how pretty she is. And when I got the feeling that she was enjoying herself, I’d ease my hand up her thigh and tease my fingers beneath her small clothes, feeling how wet she was for me.** He flipped onto his back, irritated. He didn’t have time for this. He didn’t have time for these wantings, he didn’t have time for heartbreak. He had a job to do, and none of it involved him dreaming of the thatch of red curls between Sansa Stark’s thighs. 

Sansa felt his irritation drifting over her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, partly in despair that he could not share in her longing, and partially because this scene was eerily familiar. His anger and the pair of them in the bed dredged up memories of that night so long ago. “ _I’ll have a song from you.”_ She trembled now, though not fear. No, the fear had dimmed through the years. During that time his words had taken on new meaning. Her eyes closed, she pictured them again, him on top of her, pressing her down into the bed. _He’d say that to me again, ‘Give me a song’_ _and his voice would be rough and demanding and his hands would be greedy. And then he’d kiss me, all anger and passion and longing. He’d want me, just me, Sansa, his little bird. And I’d . . ._ Sansa stilled, her own brazenness shocking her, even in her fantasies. _I’d give him everything._

**I would give anything to hear her.** Sandor thought, his disobedient ideas refusing to submit to his better judgement. **I would give anything to hear her moan as I sank into her. Seven hells, she’d be perfect, warm and wet and so unbearably tight around me. I’d have to be careful if she really is a maid, them tearing and bleeding and all.** He cringed a little at the thought, even as another bolt of heat ran straight to his cock. He didn’t want to hurt her, ever.  **But I don’t want any other man to either. This way, if I did it, I’d know that she was being treated right. Mother have mercy she’d be so tight. And hot. And she’d sing for me, sighing and moaning and begging for it, her long, pale legs wrapped around my waist. It’d be my name on her lips when she came, her little cunt squeezing me even tighter as she begged me not to stop and then I’d** —

Sandor flung himself out of bed, reaching for his discarded cloak. 

“What’s wrong?” Sansa asked, startled. She sat upright. 

“Nothing,” he snapped. “Just need to check on the horses.” 

“Oh,” she whispered, the word buried beneath the sound of the door slamming behind him.

Sansa stared at the door for a moment. Then she laid back down and pulled up her robe, her hand going between her legs. She didn’t waste any time, terrified that Sandor would burst through the door and find her like that. But there was no way to sleep as she was.  It only took a minute before her back arched off the bed, her muscles spasming and her lips clamping together to hold in the sounds. Then her entire body slumped back into the lumpy mattress, feeling more relaxed than she had in days. She smoothed down her robe and turned toward the wall, her eyelids drifting closed. A few minutes later she heard Sandor come back in and lay down, but she was nearly asleep by then and didn’t want to annoy him by asking what he’d had to check on so late at night. 

It must have been nearly dawn when Sansa was pulled from her sleep by an unusual sound. She snapped awake and turned to see what was the matter. Sandor was turned toward her, though it was too dark to make out his features. She’d been woken by his breathing, which was terribly loud, as if he was running instead of lying in bed. 

“Sandor?” she asked, alarmed. He didn’t reply though his breathing hitched faster until he was gasping for air. His limbs jerked, making the whole bed shake. “Sandor!” she reached out and shook his shoulder, making him jolt. He froze for half a heart beat then bolted upright in the bed, staring around the room as if he expected somebody to leap out and attack him. 

Sansa looked up at him, her heart beating too quickly. “It’s all right,” she whispered. She almost reached out and touched him again, but thought better of it. “It was only a dream. Everything is all right.” It was too dark to see him well, but she could make out the shape of his head as he turned to look at her. 

“Little bird?” he asked, sounding unsure, as if he were still dreaming. 

This time Sansa did reach for him, leaning up on her elbow so that she could touch his arm. “I’m right here. Everything is all right.”

Sandor let out a shaky breath and sank back down into the blankets. Only instead of turning away, he reached out and caught Sansa in his arms and crushed her against him. Sansa’s heart stuttered, but she soon recognized that this was not a lover’s embrace. Sandor Clegane clutched her against his chest the way a child holds onto a toy for comfort. It hurt a little, but she would not have him pull away. Instead, she burrowed her face in his chest and wrapped her arm around his middle, stroking his back. She soothed him the same way she had soothed her Sweetrobin all those long winter nights. “Shhh,” she whispered. Her voice was muffled by the coarse cloth of his robe, but she knew he could hear her. “It’s all right. I’m here. I’m here.” 

It was so similar to Robin, but different too. She soothed, but she was also comforted. His arms were around her, and she felt tucked away, held safe and snug against him. She could feel his face pressing against the top of her head. His warm breath stirred her hair. After a long time his breathing deepened and the crushing embrace relaxed, his arm growing heavy with sleep. She smiled as warmth pooled in her, filling her to the brim. It was different from the frantic heat of before. Not lust then, though it stirred her blood just as much. 

Sansa closed her eyes and nuzzled closer to him, her face fitting perfectly into the crook of his shoulder, her head pillowed on his arm. He adjusted a little in his sleep, wrapping his arm more securely around her waist, making her smile again. 

In the morning this would all change, she knew. They’d go back to being what they were before: gruff and distant, foolish and frightened. Two near strangers with far too much history between them. 

But for right now, Sansa was happy, and for right now, that was enough.


End file.
